Murder Under The Bridge
by Ms.Holmes221B
Summary: Clara witnesses a murder, and John is the only one who can help. Will he be able to move on from Sherlock to solve one more murder, will Clara be just what he needs to do so? And what will happen when John discovers Sherlock isn't really dead? I suck at summaries, but i love to write (this is my first fanfic) so read and review :)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

The rain dumps down onto the paved streets of London as I duck under every overhang, but I still have to squint to see two feet in front of me, making it difficult to get anywhere. I have to tell someone what I've witnessed, but I can't just go around telling everyone, and I diffidently can't go to the police, I may not have gotten a good look at him, but I know he saw me, which would be more than enough to put a hit out on me. What I really need is a detective, a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes to be exact. But he's dead, I saw him fall, and saw John rush to his side, but that's all I could handle, he didn't deserve to die. Something else had to have happened on that rooftop the day Sherlock died. Of all the things Sherlock Holmes was, a fraud was not one of them. He was genuinely brilliant, running around with his friend, John Watson, catching criminals. But now he's gone; now there's no one to help me.

I walk for what seems like hours, thinking through everything that happened that day, why did everything have to go so wrong? It's hard to believe I won't be reading about his latest solved case in the newspaper tomorrow morning, won't be able to see the latest on him and his infamous deerstalker. I stand silently on the sidewalk, getting completely soaked in the rain, but too lost in thought to notice or care. When I finally realize where I am, I can't say I'm surprised, _it always comes back to this, right?_ 221B Baker Street, the former sleuths flat. I make my way to the tall, black chipping door, wary of anyone walking by while I slowly turn the knob, not getting my hopes up that it's unlocked. When it is I let myself in and step under the threshold into the entry way, still not letting my guard down while I walk up the creaking steps. I hear shuffling coming from downstairs and I freeze, John Watson used to mention his landlady in his blog, I can't quite remember her name, but she sounded nice enough, not that I was going to take any chances. Soon enough she quiets down and I continue my slow journey up the stairs, with adrenaline pumping through my veins and all of my senses of high alert.

I know something is off the moment I reach the top of the steps. The lights are on, and is that… tea? Yes, it has to be tea that I smell. I stand in the room, just staring for at least five minutes when I get the feeling I'm being watched. I flick my eyes to every corner, every shadow, and toward every creak, desperately trying to find whoever is here with me. The feeling eventually dulls as I become accustomed to it and I begin making my way around the room, examining every aspect, from the creepy skull and riding crop on the mantel, to the spray painted smiley face on the back wall, with presumably bullet holes tracing the smile. I'm still examining the various test tubes and empty bottles when someone strikes me on the head and everything goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

When I finally come to, my right hand is cuffed to a heater, and the pounding in my head is unbearable. I reach my free hand up to my head while I try to refocus my vision. I can't help but let out a weak chuckle as I analyze my situation, it may have been the blow to my head but what I just got myself into seems absolutely hilarious, even though a nagging sensation in the back of my head is screaming at me that I could be in serious trouble. Everything is still a little fuzzy when a strong looking hand reaches down with two aspirin, and a glass of water in the other, which soon follows the aspirin. "For your head." He quickly explains when I look up at him in confusion. He has short blond hair with a moustache to match, a round nose, and he's wearing a ridiculous jumper. But what really catch my attention are his eyes, they look so worn, and simply exhausted. The dark bags just below only added to his unhealthy appearance, he looks as though he hasn't slept in days, or eaten for even longer. That's when I realize what makes the jumper look so ridiculous, it's not the pattern, it's the fact that its huge on him, hanging down lower than it should.

When my train of thought finally ends I notice he's asked me a question, "Sorry, what?" His eyebrows rise in amusement at my blush upon realizing I was staring.

"Come on, I know I didn't hit you that hard," He jokes before restating the question, "I said, who are you?" his tone instantly changing.

The delay in my response is slightly embarrassing; my head is so fogged up I can hardly remember my own name. I'm just about to respond when I second guess myself; I have no idea who this man is. Hardly anyone knows my name, why should I trust more than anyone else? "Someone who needs help." Is the response I limit myself to. His face immediately softens, and he tosses me the key to the handcuffs. Just as I'm freeing my hand a women's voice calls from downstairs, "John, is everything alright up there? I thought I heard voices." The worry in her voice is evident, but the surprise in my features is probably even more obvious.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine." He shouts back down to her.

"You're John Watson?" I gasp; this couldn't be the man with the blog, the happy, adventurous, John Watson.

"Do I know you?" he asks while squinting at me, like he's trying to remember a childhood friend.

"No, but I know you, or at least, who you are. You are, or were, Sherlock Holmes' friend." He flinches noticeably at my past tense, "the one with the blog." I finish, slowly standing up.

"Not anymore." He replies curtly, turning his back to me.

That's when I decide that I can trust this man, this broken man that has obviously grown so cold to the world, and everyone in it. "My name is Clara." I take a step forward. I've never been good at comforting people, especially those who have been so obviously hurt.

"Hello Clara, and I guess you already know my name." He chuckles and turns around to face me. I'm about to speak, but he beats me to it, "I'm sorry, but we," he stops himself short upon realizing his mistake, "I mean, I don't take cases anymore."

"But I need your help." I insist, "You used to help people all the time, why not now, why not me?"

"Because Sherlock is dead," He shouts harshly, "and I'm not sure how much help I would be." His last few words are nearly a whisper as he lets his previous statement sinks in.

"There was a murder." I say quickly before he has a chance to stop me, and the glint in his eye is unmistakable, until he shakes his head, clearing his thoughts.

"No. No, I don't do that anymore I'm finished, through, do you hear me? I will not get sucked into another case." He huffs and turns his head slightly, "what'd you see?" He asks with a small smile slowly growing, warming up his features.

I make my way over to the chair closest to the wall to begin, but just as I'm about to sit I notice the pained expression on his face. _Oh, this must have been where Sherlock sat._ His eyes look almost grateful when I decide to stand.

"You can sit, if you'd like." He says carefully, putting off that he doesn't really want me to, but still trying to stay polite.

"It's fine, I'd rather stand." I say softly before giving him an understanding look, and he repays me with a little turn up on each side of his mouth. "As I was saying," I continue, "there was a murder, Mr. Watson, and I think you're the man to help me solve it."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

"I was taking my usually walk around London, its something I like to do at night, when all the lights are turned on, and London is glowing."

"Don't you have… parents? Or someone to look after you? I mean, you couldn't be older than, what, thirteen, fourteen?"

"Fifteen, thanks." Is my short answer, "and no, my parents died when I was eight, car crash."

"Then you live in a home?" He asks, still confused. Sherlock would've caught on ages ago.

"Nope." I leave him to unravel the rest. He mouths forms a silent o as he realizes what I'm trying to tell him.

"Homeless, then?" I sigh at the lengthy amount of time it took for him to figure it out.

"Now if I could continue my story about the man I witnessed being murdered." I emphasize the last word to make my point clear.

"Yes, of course." He responds, sitting down in the chair across from Sherlock's. "As you were saying?" He requests, looking up at me.

"I was walking when I came to this little bridge, it's one of my favorites so I started to make my way over to cross it when I heard shouts, and splashing coming from underneath. I figured it was just a couple of kids out late, so I went a little lower to see underneath. I know quite a few of the locals so I wanted to see if I recognized them." I sigh, the next part is difficult to describe. "When I got close enough to see whoever it was, there were two men; I didn't recognize either of them, so I hid." We both know what happens next and john reaches out a comforting hand. "The taller man had his hands around the others throat and he was thrashing horribly, but, like I said, the other man was bigger, and apparently much stronger. I was completely frozen, how was I supposed to react to seeing something like that? After a minute or two the man grew still and the man, for good measure I suppose, flicked his wrist," I can hardly believe what I witnessed myself and I can feel the panic rising in my throat as I try to continue. "All he had to do was flick his wrist! I heard the snap. I knew what had happened almost immediately, and that he could easily do the same to me. I wasn't thinking, I panicked and screamed. Was almost like watching telly, I heard the scream, but I never could have guessed it was my own. The man looked up just in time to see me stand; I was going to run, but his eyes. They made my blood run cold, I froze. They hardly even looked human, that's all I saw, his eyes, and I ran. I ran as fast as I could, terrified he was chasing me. I ran as far as I could and then ducked my way back into every shadow, until I got here, your flat."

"I'm so sorry you had to see something like that" he whispers soothingly, "you must be exhausted." And I am, I am so tired. Tired of everything, but it's the physical fatigue that overcomes me now, and I nod. "Why don't you stay here tonight, there's a," He seems to force the rest of the sentence out, "spare room that you can use."

"I can stay on the couch." It must be hard enough taking a case without Sherlock, but to have me in his old room might be too much for anyone to handle, especially so soon, it's only been just over a month.

"if that's what you want," the familiar grateful expression crosses his face again. "Tomorrow morning we'll get started on this case of yours." He gives me a warm smile before tossing me a pillow and blanket. "You can use these."

"Thank you." Is all I can say, no words could ever tell him how grateful I am for everything he's done for me, and he hasn't know me anymore more than a few hours.

"Goodnight." He shouts from around the corner to his room. There's that delay in my response again, I can't remember the last time someone told me goodnight.

"Goodnight." I shout back, just in time to hear his door click shut. And for the first time, in the last seven years, I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The screams are what wake me in the middle of the night. My first instinct is to turn and bolt, out the door, down the road, as far away as I can get. When you don't have a home or someone to protect you it's every man for himself, nobody can afford to be a hero where I'm from. So I don't understand why I stay, why I run as fast as I can to John's door, nothing to protect either of us is my hands, or why I'm prepared to die to help him. I have my hand of his doorknob when what I hear next stops me cold, "Sherlock! No… Don't, Sherlock!" His name is barely comprehensible behind John's sobs as I rush into the room. He's flailing in his bed and I know it's not safe to approach him.

"John? John, it was just a dream you need to wake up now!" I try not to shout to be heard over his screams. Finally after a few minutes he settles, he stops flailing and goes to a weak ball, still crying quietly. I know I can't leave him like this, I can only imagine what kind of hell his dreams are bringing him. So I do the only thing I can I quietly make my way to his bed and lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, my mother used to do that whenever I had a nightmare, until both her and my father died in a car crash. John finally stirs awake and gives a little start at seeing me by his bedside.

"How," He clears his throat and refuses to make eye contact with me, "how long have you been here?"

"Does this happen every night?"

"Long enough then," He clears his throat again and starts to get up, "yep, every night." He answers my question while leaving the room.

"It's the middle of the night, you should go back to sleep."

He snickers a bit at my worries, "Never get much anyway."

I had guessed that from the start, but to hear him say it so briskly, like he knew he never would, stung a little. He walks to the kitchen and grabs a mug, "I'm making tea, want some?"

"Sure" I sigh and fall into a chair, giving up on getting him to sleep. I watch him from where I'm sitting and notice that when he reaches into the cupboard he reaches around a single deep blue mug for a white one, same as all the others. Probably Sherlock's mug, I figure. I can't blame him for being so distressed, especially since it only happened a month ago, but it can't be healthy, to live like this. He walks to the fridge to get milk for the tea and I catch a glimpse of probably ten or so casseroles, "Who made all of those casseroles? I ask lightly, not putting too much hope into getting any.

"Mrs. Hudson" He replies and I catch his small smile of fondness for his landlady. "She couldn't go a day without taking care of me and-" He cuts himself off, realizing what he was about to say, refusing to speak his name, like it was a poison on his tongue. His face turns stony and I get the hint, waiting silently for the tea he was making. He finally finishes and carries the tea over to where I was sitting, handing me mine and walking back over to his chair.

"Thanks," I mutter as he sits down.

"So, Should we get started?" He asks, watching me from his spot.

"With?" I question, waiting for him to continue.

"The case, of course." He smirks.

"Shouldn't we wait until morning?" I say through suppressed laughter, it's probably three in the morning, and _now_ he wants to work on the case?

"Well, why not? I'm not going to sleep, and you don't seem like you're planning on it."

"Where I'm from there's not much time to sleep, stay in one place for too long and you either get caught or stolen from. I've lost too much food to complete strangers while I sleep, so I got accustomed to not getting much." He frowns a bit at my statement, and I can tell he's deep in thought.

Finally I can tell he snaps back and he starts to chuckle, "Guess you won't be getting very much here either, will you?" He laughs a bit harder, "Sorry about that." He finally stifles his laughter and sets down his mug. I can't help but smile, he has got a point. _At least here I'm safe_, I add silently in my head. "Now, the question is, where to start." He emphasizes the last three words, talking more to himself than me.

"Well, I think it can at least wait until sunrise." I joke, but he knows I mean it.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." He sighs, standing. "I'll see in the morning."

"Goodnight John." I shout after him as he makes his way back to his room. Hopefully we'll both sleep soundly through the rest of the night.


End file.
